


To Delight the Palate

by Greekhoop



Category: Ravenous (1999)
Genre: Cannibalism, Christmas, Fluff, Guro, M/M, Mutilation, Splatterpunk, Yuletide 2011
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 00:14:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greekhoop/pseuds/Greekhoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi."</i> - O. Henry, <i>The Gift of the Maji</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To Delight the Palate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vangirl/gifts).



> **Warning:** This story contains graphic violence and gore. Proceed with discretion.

The disused storage shed out behind the old company barracks was where Boyd did the majority of his stowing.

Along the back wall were three overflowing shelves of books, protected from the damp by an oilskin tarp. A large trunk stuffed into one corner contained snarls of lady’s jewelry, and the smaller cigar box that rested on top of it was where he stashed men’s cufflinks and lapel pins. The cedar cabinet where he stored the guns he had acquired contained five mismatched Colt Navy revolvers and an equal number of long-barreled Kentucky rifles. There was a sleek black leather saddle once used by a Spanish cavalryman, several complete sets of evening wear for both men and women, and innumerable pornographic daguerreotypes and packs of dirty playing cards.

Boyd had collected it all from their victims, combing through their belongings after the hard work of butchering was done and while Ives was domestically occupied in the kitchen. What Boyd didn’t salvage, they dragged out behind the fort and burned. All the same, he had nearly a full year’s worth of plunder hidden in the storage shed.

A full year’s worth, and not a single thing that was suitable for Christmas.

True, Ives’ interests had narrowed considerably over the past eleven months. Boyd’s had too, for that matter, but he felt a little nostalgic when he realized how little remained of the erudite, well-spoken, carefully-dressed man of letters who had seduced Boyd over to the life of cannibalism. Such was the way of things. The hunger was Ives’ primary interest these days, as well as his secondary and tertiary interests.

It wasn’t that things were boring now; in fact, it was quite the opposite. In addition to physical strength, knowledge was also imparted through the communion ritual, and there had been many a long hour spent conversing at length about books neither of them had ever read, places neither of them had ever seen, and lives neither of them had ever lived. And, when they grew tired of that, Ives would take Boyd to bed and fuck him senseless while tearing, with his filed teeth, bites the size of silver dollars from his flesh.

No, indeed, there was nothing to complain about, save the seemingly insurmountable problem of what to get for the man who had everything.

Boyd went out, locking the shed up carefully behind himself. He crossed the snow-drifted yard and went in to the officer’s quarters where their bedroom was. Not a creature was stirring. Ives had gone off somewhere earlier in the day, tight-lipped and secretive, and he was yet to return. Boyd opened the top drawer of the dresser and took out the well honed Bowie knife they kept on-hand for emergencies. Mindful of the mess, Boyd went out on the porch for the next part.

Holding the knife in his teeth, Boyd shucked off his boots and tossed them to safety at the far end of the porch. He unbuckled his heavy leather cartridge belt and slid out of everything he was wearing below the waist. A bitter wind was blowing down from the mountains, but in truth Boyd hardly felt the cold anymore. He wadded up his service coat and linen shirt around his midsection and tied them into a sloppy knot to keep them out of the way.

The shaft of his cock lay against the inside of his thigh. It was a narrow organ, but well-shaped. What it lacked in girth it made up for in its sturdy, tapered length. Truly, it was a cock a man ought to be proud of. Even the whores down in Canyon City had said so, and it was well known that they were the most discerning whores west of the Mason-Dixon.

Boyd gripped his cock in one hand, holding it by the little divot just above the glans. He pulled it straight out from his body, holding it perpendicular and taut. In the other hand, he took the knife and began to cut at the fleshy place where it joined with his scrotum.

For a long time, it hadn’t occurred to Ives or Boyd that the genitals were fine for eating. Neither of them thought of himself as exceptionally morbid, and there had never been any desire in them to humiliate any of their victims of profane their corpses in any way. As such, for the first few months they had tossed the reproductive organs of both males and females into the slop bucket with the viscera and bones.

It had been in the late spring, right at the height of the busiest season in the pass. There had been several families camping in the main courtyard almost every night. It made for bad conditions in which to make a kill.

Fortunately, a pair of French traders had come through just before the first big rush, and Ives had been cleverly making the meat stretch. They’d been less successful at rationing traders’ full load of whiskey, and it was safe to say that Ives had been drunk when it happened.

Whether by accident, necessity, or simply as an experiment, the cock and balls of one of the French traders had ended up in that evening’s stewpot.

They had noticed the effects immediately.

Forgoing their usual evening chat, not even pausing long enough to wash the dishes, Boyd and Ives had both bolted back to the bedroom and thrown themselves on each other for such a marathon fuck session that Ives had been compelled to leave halfway through and dispatch the unfortunate occupants of the three wagons in the courtyard so that they would not be interrupted.

Boyd grunted as the knife pierced through the top layer of skin, splitting it to reveal the purplish muscle underneath. Blood ran down the shaft of his cock, slicking the hand that gripped the tip of it. He plied the tip of the knife in between the two columns of raw tissue, slicing first one then the other.

He could remember another time, when he had teased his index finger playfully in between Ives’ lips. Ives had let him slide it in, all the way to the last knuckle, before clamping his teeth together and jerking his head back, shearing it off to the bone.

Boyd had been furious at first, and he had given Ives the silent treatment for three days, until it became clear that the missing flesh was going to grow back. It had regenerated in layers, from the inside out, and with no more discomfort than the itching of a healing scab. He suspected that this, too, would regenerate in time, but that was far from the first thing on his mind as he jimmied the blade of the knife through the tendon-like urethra, releasing a scant trickle of clear fluid.

The last ridge of tissue, the one that ran along the underside of his dick, was stiffer than the others. He sawed at it with the knife until, at last, it gave way and the last layer of skin tore with it. His cock came free in his hand, bloodstained and a little ragged around the cut end, but still looking every bit the magnificent piece of equipment he knew it to be.

Satisfied, Boyd wrapped it up in one of his handkerchiefs.

He had bled quite a bit, enough that he felt a touch light-headed. A wide arc of snow around the porch steps was stained red. Leaving his trousers and boots for the moment, Boyd went back inside and fetched a clean towel to clamp between his legs. Holding it with one hand, he went back outside and kicked fresh snow over the blood to hide it. By the time that was done, the bleeding had slowed enough that he could get dressed again with only another handkerchief folded inside his drawers to keep it from soaking through.

Whistling jauntily to himself, immensely proud of his ingenuity, Boyd strode across the courtyard to the kitchen. He had a lot of work to do before Ives returned…

***

The sky was the bruised blue of late evening when Ives rode back through the gate. He put the horse in the stable without pausing to unsaddle it, and he rushed into the dining room carrying a package wrapped in buckskin.

“You’re tracking snow,” Boyd scolded mildly as Ives swept him into a kiss. “And you’re late. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I remembered. I’ve brought you a gift,” Ives said, flashing a fanged smile.

“I’ll open it in a moment. After you’ve seen what I’ve got for you.” He took Ives’ arm, guiding him over to the pinewood table. He’d pulled a spare bed sheet over the bare boards to make a kind of table cloth, and he’d arranged some of their tallow candles into a centerpiece.

Boyd seated Ives at the head of the table, and proudly retrieved the covered dish from the sideboard. As he set it down before Ives’ he felt a shiver of proud excitement race through him.

Ives removed the lid from the dish. Boyd’s cock was arranged in the center of the plate, the skin bronzed from grilling, garnished with new potatoes and a red onion and with a clove inserted into the slit at the tip. Ives did all the cooking for their small family, but Boyd had picked up a thing or two from him. The cock was perfectly cooked, and it had smelled so good when it was on the stove that it had been all Boyd could do not to take a taste ahead of time.

“Merry Christmas,” Boyd said, but it was scarcely out of his mouth before he realized that Ives looked pale and stunned.

“Of course, it will grow back,” he said quickly. “I hadn’t thought that you wouldn’t like me without it. But—

“All at once, Ives burst into laughter. “My dear, a little thing as this would never make me stop liking you. It’s just that I got you a little something of my own today…”

He retrieved the package wrapped in buckskin and placed it on the table. Boyd could see that there was a wooden board at the bottom of it, and then several layers of skins wrapped fast around. When he laid a hand on it, he felt heat emanating from within.

“Open it,” Ives urged, and Boyd folded back the layers of buckskin.

Underneath was a tin plate from the kitchen, and on the plate, the outer skin dark and crackling from roasting with hot stones, exuding such a wonderful smell that Boyd’s mouth instantly began to water, was, unmistakably, Ives’ cock.

The look on Boyd’s face was such that it set Ives to laughing again.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” he said when he had gotten his breath back. “I can’t remember a better one. Now, let’s eat, before it gets cold.”


End file.
